Written in the Scars(38)

“Yes, you do.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I laugh sadly. “How can I ever trust you not to just walk away when things get hard or boring?”

“Is that what you think I did?” he asks, astonished. “You think I just got sick of this life and walked out?”

“Yup.”

“How could you think that?”

“What am I supposed to think? You leaving was a new low, Ty, a new bottom. You’ve never even thought about leaving me before and all it took was one little—”

“You asked me to.”

My hands throw in the air. “Yeah, I did. You’re right. So you just decide a few weeks of not talking to me at all was the right answer?”

“My phone broke. I—”

“What if I needed you?”

The heft of my question cuts him off, his mouth still open. Slowly, his head cocks to the side. “Did you?”

I only look at him. No smile, no smirk, no staring daggers his way. Just a somber look that has him thrown off balance.

“Elin . . .”

“Do I even want to know what you were doing?”

He still hasn’t recovered from my insinuation. Gathering all the courage I can gather, I go for it. I ask the one question that, depending on the answer, will answer every other one.

“Was it another woman, Tyler?”

“No!”

“Do you have any idea the reasons I’ve came up with to try to make myself feel better about this? Did you have any idea the hysteria I’d feel not knowing if you were alive? Then I hear from Pettis that you are alive and well and everything becomes clear that it’s probably another woman—”

He lurches forward. “It was not another woman!”

“How do I know?” I ask breathlessly.

He runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots. “Do you want to know why I left?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” I reply, not sure that’s true.

He starts to speak and then stops a few times, like he’s gathering the courage to share whatever secret he’s kept to himself. The longer it takes him to come forward with the truth, the more confident I feel that I don’t want to hear it.

“Save it,” I say, starting back to the kitchen. If he won’t leave, I will.

“I felt emasculated.”

The room stills, an eerie silence dropping over the space. He doesn’t speak and neither do I as he waits for some sort of reaction.

“I did,” he shrugs, looking at the floor. “Here I am, the man of the house. I can’t work and I’m sitting here all fucking day, watching you kill yourself at work and taking care of the house and me and paying the bills while I do nothing.”

“You were hurt,” I say in disbelief.

“And then,” he continues, like he got a second wind, “all I hear about is the baby stuff. When we can have sex, when we can’t. What’s wrong with you, what could be wrong with me.”

“Well, I’m sorry for wanting to have your child!” I burst out.

“I want you to have my child. I want you to have a fucking dozen of them!” he booms. “But my God, Elin. That’s all it was about. I felt like I couldn’t perform, like I was shooting blanks and you were judging me for it, and I swear to all that’s holy, I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with us but the fucking pressure.”

I blink back salty tears as the truth lingers on my tongue. Before I can find the courage to tell him about the baby, he speaks again and I’m relieved.

“You were pissed all the time and that made me frustrated and it was just one thing after another. Every time one of us opened our mouths—”

“We’d fight,” we say in unison. Exchanging a sad smile, I bow my head.

“I wasn’t with another woman. I wasn’t on drugs, no matter what Pettis told you. Yes, I took that money to buy them, but I didn’t.”

Looking up at him, I hold my breath. “But you were going to?”

“Yeah. I won’t lie to you. I was just taking what I was prescribed, basically, although I went through that last script in about half the time. I was going to buy more and just keep the numbness I had going on to block everything out.” He takes a step towards me. “But I didn’t.”

“Where’s the money now?”

“I used it to live. Food, gas, whatever.” His face falls. “I pussed out. You asked me to go and I did. I just . . . I wanted a break from all the fighting. I thought we could take some time apart and really clear our heads, you know? Why come back if it’s the same thing?”

I want to tell him because I needed him, because I was silently pleading for him to return, but I don’t because that would require an explanation I’m not ready to give him. I cross my arms across my chest, both as an outward expression to keep him away . . . and to keep myself for reaching for him.